I stepped back from the sidewalk, hugging my arms close to my sides, and leaned back on the wall at the corner into the alley, raising one leg, knee bent, and my cowboy booted foot flat against the wall. The hole in the sole of that boot was worn clean through and the cold of the wall wasn't as cold as that of the sidewalk pavement. Besides, it was a good pose for the purpose.
While still watching up the conveniently one-way street for slowing cars, I cupped my hands over my mouth and blew. The breath came out in steam and, I'm sure, made it look like I was smoking a cigarette. I decided that was rather cool for the pose I was taking.
I needed a heavier jacket than this leather vest. It was almost Christmas and once again I had failed to migrate to Florida for the winter. I must remember to berate my social secretary for failing to schedule that. A bulky jacket wouldn't work as well, but if I froze to death, it wouldn't matter what I was wearing. The worst of winter was coming on. I definitely needed a warmer jacket than this.
I heard the slamming of a door back in the alley, and in a few moments I heard his lumbering steps. Just like clockwork at this time. I'd decided a long time ago that the guy must work someplace back there that stayed open late. Wherever he worked, it fronted on the street behind me and I hadn't had the curiosity yet to check it out.
"Hi," he said, as he hit the head of the alley. A big-boned guy somewhere in his thirties. Always looking hangdog when he came out of the alley. But it was after 1:00 a.m., so that was understandable. A big lug. Clumping feet, big hands, a head with hair that had a mind of its own. Cauliflower ears and a bent nose. He looked like he'd been in a lot of fights—but not fights of his choosing because he had sort of a teddy bear demeanor. But not fights that he'd lost either.
I said "Hi" back as he passed and huddled my arms into my chest again, looking up the street, not at him.
I'd been staked out here since late summer and we'd only gotten to the "hi" stage. Of course, I only saw him here once a day, if even that. Sometimes, if I was lucky, I was someplace else when he came out of the alley. I did look forward to the "hi," though. It's about the only thing anyone said to me that wasn't just demanding something they wanted.
I watched him lumber up the street, and I had turned my head, looking for slowing cars coming from the other direction, before realizing that he had turned and come back at me.
"You look cold," he said.
I turned my head, surprised. "My fur coat's in a storage vault in Boca Raton," I said. "I'd meant to be down there for Christmas, but you know how it is when business gets crazy."
"Mine is too," he answered with a little laugh. "In a storage vault somewhere. Just can't remember where the storage vault is. But seriously, you look cold and like you need to warm up someplace. You got a place?"
"Yeah, my mansion's back there in the alley. The second cardboard box on the right."
I wasn't being snotty on purpose. I couldn't be seen standing and talking with someone who liked like he might be a john but wasn't while a real one might be just about to cruise by.
"You hungry?"
"I'm always hungry."
He stood there for a moment, in silence, like he was thinking something over. I desperately wanted him to move on, but he was the only guy who said "hi" to me, so I reined myself in. There weren't any cars moving on the street anyway.
"What the hell," he said. "I had a good night. Thursdays are always light. And I'm not feeling like eating alone. My place isn't far from here. It's warm and I don't feel like eating alone. Come on up and I'll fix you something to eat and you can warm up before coming out on the street again."
"Well . . ." I couldn't think of a way to say no without hurting his feelings and I'd gotten used to hearing that "hi." He looked like such a teddy bear. And there weren't any cars cruising down the street.
"You look like you could use a shower too. When was the last time you had a shower? You got any clean clothes back there in that cardboard box mansion? And I could throw these in the washer and dryer while you have a meal. Come on. Winter's coming on is a lonely time, especially in this season if you don't have someone special to spend it with, and there's nothing on the television late Thursday nights I like to watch."
"Well . . . . OK, thanks. Give me a minute." Still looking frantically down the street for the hint of a john promising a better opportunity, I backed into the alley and headed for my stash. Someone special to spend Christmas with, I thought. Yeah, I wish. I'll bet this guy wishes too.
We were walking the couple of blocks to where he said his apartment was and he was slowing down while we walked and not saying anything when he abruptly stopped by the door of an all-night bodega.
"Just a minute," he said, his voice a little nervous. "I remembered I needed something in here. I'll be just a sec. You can wait out here."
I watched him out of the corner of my eye as he entered the mom and pop store. He was acting nervous enough that I half thought he was going to hold up the place. But he went down an aisle and stopped right where I sometimes stopped in this store. With a knowing little sigh, I turned and propped my back on the support column next to the bodega window, lifted my cowboy boot with the biggest hole to the wall behind me, hooked my thumbs in my jean pockets, and looked up the street while he picked out what brand of condom and lube he wanted.
I knew how I was going to pay for the shower and dinner. I had gone naturally into "the pose," because there always was a chance that something more promising would be cruising by in a flashy car.
At the street door to his apartment building, not much more than a tenement, he stopped and turned to me and, in an earnest voice, said, "My name's Art."
That put us past the "hi" stage. "I'm Jimmy," I answered. I'm not Jimmy, of course, but it's a good enough name for johns—more often than not more than enough—and a lot easier for them to remember than my own name.
His place was small, but clean, and actually had a separate bedroom, with a brass head-boarded double bed, and bath, in addition to the room that served as living room, dining room, and kitchen. The poor excuse for a Christmas tree he had propped up in a corner was pathetic looking, and made me feel sorry for him—which may have been the tone he had been going for when he leaned it into that corner. The apartment was toasty warm, though, which made all of the difference. And he had a compact washer-dryer unit and was washing the clothes I had been wearing and fixing some dinner as I showered.
He'd shyly looked away as I'd taken my clothes off, and I had to clear my throat for him to reach out a hand to take them. I made no effort to cover myself. I knew he intended to fuck me—that he was just slow in working up to it.
After the time I'd spent out on the street, the apartment was actually a bit more than toasty warm, and when I came out of the bedroom after my shower, I was just wearing low-rise jeans and a flannel shirt over my shoulders that I didn't bother to button. I hadn't put on any briefs or socks and shoes, either. I knew the score here.
